


do_androids_fall_for_pretty_little_birds_?

by NARKOTIKA



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anarchy, And Then Some, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Awkward Sexual Tension, Bounty Hunters, Canon-Typical Violence, Cybernetic Implants & Bionic Limbs, Cyberpunk, Dubious Morality, Dubious Science, Dystopia, Eventual Smut, Fetishized Weaponry, Genetically Engineered Beings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Pining, Post-Nuclear War, Secret Government Programs, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Difference, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Super Soldier Shiro, Technobabble, Touch-Starved Shiro, Weird Biology, cue the Windows XP startup sound, he b i g, in which a sticky situation™ ensues, in which keef can be ur hologram hoe starting at only 500 GAC an hour, in which shiro goes against his programming, in which the world hit Ctrl+Alt+Del, it's a high-tech low-life, neon lights & pretty boys: an aesthetic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-06-18 02:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15475260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NARKOTIKA/pseuds/NARKOTIKA
Summary: The Last War, escalated by environmental devastation, class warfare, and a subsequent financial crisis that ravaged the earth in the early twenty-first century, set forth a global cataclysm that would topple corrupt governments and mega-corporations that misused power as means of control and profiteering. In the face of what very nearly could have been the end of the end, a new technological world somehow survived. Free from the oppressive powers that be, the collapse of social order and international borders has left the planet consumed by territorial disputes and crawling with crime—chaos rules above all else and it is every man for himself.In the rainy metropolis of a neon dystopia, Keith Kogane is just another denizen trying to get his money, stay out of trouble, and make it to the next day. The last thing he expects is to end up on the run with a former government assassin who is all too entirely convinced that there's a bounty out on Keith's head. The guy just doesn't seem to compute that Keith is no one special, but alas, stranger thingshavehappened.ORKeith is beautiful and SH-120.exe has stopped working.





	1. Avalanches

**Author's Note:**

> this is mainly inspired by Blade Runner 2049 and the [Baseline Test](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYt9y0Rx3Gg). holy shit this movie had me shaken to my core for literal days but this scene? the whole concept?? entirely something else. like, i could NOT get it out my mind, it is just so poetically fucked up and heartbreaking so of COURSE i thought of my tragic sons Shiro and Keef. in related news, s7 also continues to have me allll the way fucked up and i need to cope with these feelings one way or another so buckle in, my dudes, lmao.  
>   
> sorry in advance if it takes a while to actually get to The Thing but the original draft was technically a clone!Shiro character study and it kind of continues to be so (not the clone part but the character study part) bc i love him and i love Keef and they deserve all the words you could possibly pry from my bleeding fingertips.  
>   
> title is a play on of the original novel 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?'. also oh my god i am ngl this is VERY NERVE-WRACKING, as it is every time you post fic to your new fandom (hello, new fandom, i love youuuuuu), but pls forgive me bc i have been Sheith trash for a HOT minute despite my lack of contribution. do let me know if any of u would like TWs in the endnotes! i will try my best to accommodate! stay safe and enjoy <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [a violent disharmony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLmx1dXFMIE)  
> 

This is SH-120’s earliest memory:

He is tucked up on a cold bed. He is four, maybe five years old. He does not remember what happened directly before this, as if he came into existence curled up under frigid sheets halfway through the night. He is staring at where a pale slit of moonlight pours in through the window and onto his hand as it rests in a loosely curled fist atop his pillow. _I want to go home,_ he thinks, even though these walls and these floors are all he has ever known. Even though he’s not sure where home could possibly be if not here. _I want to go home,_ he thinks, even though he knows, at four years old, that there’s no point wanting impossible things.

 

***

 

SH-120 was created in the light.

Manufactured, engineered with precision, biologically altered to physical and cognitive perfection. Organic and yet still programmable. There was no such thing as a perfect human, but there SH-120 was: a Paladin—neither man nor god. Forged for war, a creature driven not by human emotion or desire but by genetically modified instincts and abilities. Conditioned to obey every order without question or debate.

The only touch SH-120 receives, as a child, is in training, when he is made to fight the others from his unit, to learn to deflect or get knocked to the floor over and over and over and-

“Again, SH-120,” they tell him.

And so he does.

Afterward, back in the dorm, he reaches beneath his bunk and pulls out his medkit. He sits on his bed, glues his own cuts and chills his own bruises, and on the dozens of rows of bunks that span the rest of the hall, he watches the others tending to their wounds, most of them very poorly—none of them yet coordinated enough at six years old. SH-120 learns the routine early on: if you get broken, you fix it yourself. Or you don’t get fixed at all.

Defective behavior is against the rules. They are told that they are not designed to act on certain behaviors. That, because of this, experiencing particular “urges” needs to be reported and “cured” immediately. If they do not cooperate, they are told, they will not receive an additional warning. At ten years old, there are now only consequences.

There is no time to ponder them, whatever they are, as the next day, training becomes more difficult. “You are no longer playing games,” the overseers say—quicker to punish failure, severe with their impatience and expectation—even though to SH-120, they have never felt like games. Instruction becomes a battlefield. For the first time, their worth is dictated upon a scoreboard:

_Unit SH_

_118: 13 hits, 5 casualties_

_119: 19 hits, 8 casualties_

_120: 1 hit_

Screens fill the gaps in their day, meals are spent in silence, and training is so grueling that the only time SH-120 has the energy to speak anymore is to address his superiors.

“Yes, sir.”

“No, sir.”

“Thank-you, sir.”

Outside of simulation instruction, his unit no longer exchanges words, not even to practice language or strategy. SH-120 has become so seamlessly conditioned that he doesn’t even notice until he’s spent three days without having uttered a single word.

By fourteen, SH-120 has already worked out that the rules are in place to prevent distraction. Paladins do not think, feel, or fraternize. They obey. From his top bunk, SH-120 can look across the dorm and see the covered shapes of SH-119, SH-118, and the others, still and asleep in their beds, so quiet it’s oftentimes deafening. Sometimes SH-120 wonders if he’s the only one. Sometimes he wonders if they feel like there is a missing piece inside them, too.

 

***

 

One of the first things SH-120 remembers learning was the importance of his armor. “It keeps you safe,” they would say. The superior officers probably meant that in a very literal way, and that’s certainly how SH-120 took it at the time, but he understands the real reason now, at seventeen. SH-120’s armor keeps him safe because it keeps him anonymous. Another blacked out helmet in a sea of marching bodies, and the bigger the group of bodies, the safer he is.

Paladins are designed to be disposable.

Paladins are designed to be interchangeable.

Paladins are designed to be nameless, faceless lines of tin soldiers.

A real Paladin has no room for sympathy. A real Paladin is the extension of the infantry, of the Federated Alliance’s will, nothing more. But when he receives his first order, SH-120 feels like he is losing something  _important._

“Shoot the defect,” the voice in his earpiece instructs.

SH-120 hesitates a moment too long—finger on the trigger, jaw clenched, every fiber in his being in complete acquiescence of his place, of what he is, of what he must do—but something inside him holds fast.

The shot that rings out feels like the loudest thing SH-120 has ever heard. SH-119, confusion shrouded upon his unsuspecting face, falls to his knees, the simulation ending. He sees SH-120 standing there, then, and frowns, brows drawing together. He does not understand, cannot seem to fathom how SH-120 is the one on the other end of the gun drawn and aimed at him. Raised together, trained together—his own bunkmate. SH-120 can’t help it then; he reaches out and clutches at SH-119’s armor, feels the life leaving the body inside it, and  _knows_ that something about this is wrong.

Paladins aren’t supposed to rush to the sides of other dying Paladins. He knows that. But knowing doesn’t seem to make a difference when it actually happens. Knowing doesn’t prevent the feeling of that utter  _something_ that swells up inside him and makes him feel like his insides are being looped with razor wire. Paladins are designed to kill and be killed. SH-119 had done half of that. SH-120’s done the rest. It was in his training. It was in his programming.

But it has never been in  _him._

 

***

 

When SH-120 held the dying SH-119 in his hands, he wanted to— _help_. He wanted to fix it. He wanted to take off Nineteen’s helmet and his exosuit and give him the final gift of touch.

But he was too scared. This was his first assignment. He’s never touched anyone before, not like that—not the way Nineteen needed. He was terrified. SH-120 knows he is going to face the consequences, regardless. The consequences that they had been warned about all those years ago. He had faltered. He knew better. He was taught, from an early age, that all Paladins are expendable. There was never any need to question what the consequences were. Everyone knows a defective Paladin is a dead Paladin.

 

***

 

Palms against his thighs, SH-120 sits unmoving, kneeling where grains of rice have been scattered beneath him in his confinement cell. The initial sting of punishment, raw and sharp like shards of glass against the skin of his knees, has faded into a numbing burn. The seconds tick by like minutes, minutes dragging like hours, the hours lulling painfully as he stares into the darkness, waiting for the moment a superior officer will walk in with a glaring look of ridicule to deliver SH-120 his fate.

It is in the fifth hour that he hears the sound of the whirring lock on the door before it slides open and an onslaught of fluorescent lighting pours into the room.

It is not his unit’s overseer, but Dr. Haggar herself, hands clasped together as she takes SH-120 in. He remains as he has been, stationary, submitting. She enters the cell, heels clicking as she takes careful, calculated steps toward him. SH-120’s eyes remain lowered. She continues past, moving around the table in the center of the room and seating herself. A tin is pulled out and placed upon it. She arranges herself neatly, crossing her legs and calmly reclining, opening it up and pulling out a cigarette, putting it to her lips. She lights up and spends a moment in quiet enjoyment, steadily inhaling and exhaling. SH-120 can feel her eyes on him as she blows out her smoke.

“They’ve stopped production,” is the first thing she says, somber, ashes falling to the table’s surface as she taps at the cigarette. Another long drag. “I’ve been prepared, thankfully. Squirreling them away.” She flips the lid of the tin open and closed. “A woman shouldn’t have to suffer without a vice in these trying times.” Another stretch of silence ticks on. Flicking at the datapad in front of her, Dr. Haggar says at last, “Identify yourself, Paladin.”

“Designation: SH-120 of SH-unit, Squadron Black,” he affirms, eyes trained forward. “Ma’am.”

“Hm.” Dr. Haggar puts the cigarette to her lips once more. “Your error log indicates but a single infraction.” She drums her fingers against the table. “One instance of Error A-07.”

The stale smell of her cigarette continues to waft towards SH-120 as he kneels before her. SH-120 has only ever seen glimpses of his creator before. Dr. Haggar does not govern the daily proceedings of the infantry. She does not pay visits to confinement cells or to defective Paladins. SH-120 wonders what makes him the exception.

Stubbing out the last of her cigarette, Dr. Haggar rises from her seat. “This is a severe cognitive issue,” she states. She does not sound happy. “Your body and mind belong to the Alliance, Paladin. You sacrifice for a higher purpose. This is all that you are.” She comes to a stop right in front of him. When she reaches out and places a palm against his cheek, SH-120 almost falters.

Almost.

He has never felt a touch like this before.

“You are better at this than anyone else, SH-120,” Dr. Haggar sighs. She speaks like she knows him. SH-120 supposes she does. Of course she does. She probably knows him better than he knows himself. Her touch suddenly feels cold. “The only problem is you have a soul.”

 

*** 

 

“Paladin SH-120.” The overseer remains hidden from SH-120, measuring his vitals from behind the bleached white walls of his confinement cell. “Let’s begin. Ready?”

“Affirmative,” SH-120 responds, eyes on the tracker.

“Recite your baseline.”

“And blood-black nothingness began to spin. A system of cells interlinked within cells interlinked within cells interlinked within one stem. And dreadfully distinct against the dark, a tall white fountain played.”

“Cells.”

“Cells,” SH-120 repeats.

“Have you ever been in an institution? Cells.”

“Cells.”

“Do they keep you in a cell? Cells.”

“Cells.”

“When you’re not performing your duties, do they keep you in a little box? Cells.”

It’s taunting, punishing. An interrogation laced full of scorn, a constant reminder of what it is to not be human.

“Cells," SH-120 echoes.

“Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

Quicker then, volatile: “What’s it like to hold the hand of someone you love? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

“Did they teach you how to feel finger to finger? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

“Do you long to have your heart interlinked? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

“Do you dream about being interlinked with another?”

“Interlinked.”

“Do you feel that there’s a part of you that’s missing? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

“Within cells interlinked.”

“Within cells interlinked.”

“Why don’t you say that three times? Within cells interlinked.”

“Within cells interlinked. Within cells interlinked. Within cells interlinked.”

The tracker flashes, amber light fading to white, and the overseer ceases. “We’re done.”

SH-120 does not move, does not blink, does not breathe. “Thank-you, sir,” he responds.

“It won’t go on record,” he is told after his week in solitary. “No fraternization. Understood?”

He had been slated for termination. He’d almost felt the prick of a needle in his neck, the unspoken confirmation that this was it for him. He’d almost been there.

Dr. Haggar has shown him mercy.

“Understood,” SH-120 answers.

They watch him more often now, hands behind their backs, eyes scrutinizing him. SH-120 shows them he’s the model soldier, ignores the voice buried in the deepest corner of his mind that hisses that something isn’t quite right, does everything and anything they tell him to do. He’s the perfect soldier. The best of the best.

At the cost of who he thought he’d been.

The next year, SH-120 is submitted for augmentation.

 

***

 

By twenty, SH-120 is a detonating and deactivating explosions novitiate, a hand to hand specialist, a sniper ace, a blue-chip pilot, and all that remains of SH-unit, Squadron Black.

What SH-120 really is, is hard to kill.

Like the dozens of others in the Retirement Division who have had their squads slowly reduced to tattered remnants of what they once were, SH-120 has unremittingly bided out on the fronts with the same orders he was allocated all those years ago _._

_Shoot to kill, upon detection, any trespassing Paladins of prior Phases: I, II, and III._

So when he receives new orders from Command, it comes with a cloud of perplexity.

He’s too remote, is the thing. Not even SH-120 can communicate with the Garrison, and he was able to contact them in the middle of a blizzard in Kazakhstan even though Base had warned them before they went in that the tundras disrupted most telecommunications. He’s been posted out in Colombo since. The Korean Border Wars had come and gone years prior, but Chinese offensives continued, spurred by the turmoil, exploiting the weakness of their neighbors. Japan went dark overnight, Taiwan with it. Russia and most of Eastern Europe were dust, mirrored by Washington and the East Coast. Much of the Mideast followed, what was left of Europe assuring their mutual destruction. SH-120’s new orders arrive just as Beijing is taken out:

YOU ARE ON YOUR OWN.

The government as we know it has been compromised due to deposition by hostile forces.

REMAIN VIGILANT. STAY STRONG. STAY THE COURSE.

The message that immediately follows has SH-120 moving out and not stopping, heading towards the nearest Alliance base in Jakarta.

Dead end. Dead bodies. A dozen, at least. Manila, too. The islands are an endless sea of refugees—supply chains entirely obliterated, hospitals and clinics ransacked. Tafuna, once promising, is deserted. Communications down. SOS and Homeland Security’s warnings frozen on screens. It begins to set in: home has been compromised. The entire modernized world has been abandoned, and Shiro holds his dog tags so tightly he’s surprised the chain doesn’t just snap right off his neck.

He restocks his rations, recharges his traction battery, and tracks backward across the water. He pieces together, as the sun rises over the Pacific, what’s happened.

_The PALADIN Program as of henceforth is no longer in operation. Shoot to kill, upon detection, all Paladins. Commence Phase IV retirement._

It’s the end. Who is responsible is still unclear. The satellites are all still up, the grid overrun by everyone blaming everyone else—the megacorporations, their puppets that had sat in office. The energy crises, the food shortages. The domestic rebellions, the displacement of millions, the  _eco-terrorists_.

Maybe it was everything. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was finally just too much—spilling over, overflowing and bursting at the seams.

Thirty years. Thirty years of global war and finally, inevitably, it’s come to this. Whoever it was, whoever made the final move, had set off a chain of irrevocable events, unleashed a ripple effect of insurrection and intent to put the earth to rest, favoring no man, woman, or child—they’ve had the last say. There would be no coming back from this.

SH-120 narrows in on Nairobi. Three days in, he’s seen more refugee airbuses than he can possibly count; Europe and China have nowhere to call home any longer.

He takes up position on a rooftop, just across from the U.S. embassy, a lone shadow overlooking an ocean of desperate faces. His comm catches an interesting conversation.

“What’s the protocol for this?”

Two uniformed figures stand within mere feet of his bug. A soldier and his comrade—veterans.

“There is none,” the other replies.

“Where do we go?” the first asks, running a hand over his head. He paces.

“Wherever we want,” the second responds. “It’s not like anyone is going to be after us for going AWOL.” He places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. SH-120 blinks at the gesture.

There’s a pause that drags on so long SH-120 manages to sight his target. He holds his breath and waits.

In the midst of the crowd, a man keels over, a garbled, choking mess, clutching at the hole in his throat, red running between his fingers. SH-120 draws back his sniper rifle and begins packing. When he reaches the street, a crowd has gathered around the dying man. Another Paladin terminated from duty. Several blocks down, SH-120 starts up his cruiser and moves out again.

He avoids the bases and outposts, completes his orders like the world has not upturned itself. He spends a month in Kenya, then tracks down to the Cape. Johannesburg proves itself a hotbed; SH-120 bags fifteen kills in six months’ time. He packs up again once the turf wars grow tedious. Buenos Aires has him for a year, Guadalajara for a week. The world attempts to reset and the planet spins on. SH-120 does not desert. He obeys. He has no concept of anything else.

A weapon of war.

_All that I am._

 

***

 

Five years since the Blackout, SH-120’s cruiser has taken a beating and his augmentation coding has logged an impressive archive of stalled upgrades and overrides. “Yar an ol’ war unit, fella,” he’s told at a shop in Melbourne. The wireman sends SH-120 on his way with recalibrated optics and a shake of his head. “Fackin’ skinjobs.” Last hit was less than a day ago, but SH-120 is still tracking, always has another on the backburner.

The rain is incessant, drenching everything. There’s a row of holo ads spinning along the edge of the sidewalk. They detect him as soon as he steps close enough, immediately trying to sell to him as he walks past, one starting up and as another fades back. The last one of the lot is a Caged Society ad, looping its same trademark lines: _Everything you want to see. Everything you want to hear_. The hallmark triple-x obnoxiously flashes at him, pulses purple-pink above a naked bird that keeps blowing him kisses, her lips painted as bright as her buzzed bubblegum-blue hair, eyes like black orbs, tone syrupy sweet as she calls out to SH-120 for a good time. He halfheartedly swipes at the air, cutting her off before she can begin to purse her lips again, the catalog spinning, scrolling, flying past thousands of other birds in its directory until it lands on a new one, filling her place at random. SH-120 has just managed to bypass it when his feet slow, bringing him to a stop.

The rain pelts at his heavy hood, holo lights flickering in the puddles at his feet, reflected there in the rippling water as he stands for a moment, silent and still.

He backs up.

From a few feet away, SH-120 looks across at the ad and sees the hazy shape of a raven-haired bird, and he recognizes, for the first time, what this coldness inside him is. How much he’s craved warmth—of someone else’s skin against his. To feel something other than armor and rain. SH-120 had grown up with an entire unit of Paladins, but they’d never so much as brushed elbows unless they were on the training mats. In the night, under the safety of his blanket, he would gently touch his fingers to his hand in a cheap semblance of something he couldn’t understand, an imaginary comfort, and then he would fall asleep.

He can’t quite place the feeling that rises in his chest so suddenly now, but he’s overwhelmed by it, breathtaken. He takes another step, draws closer without thought. The ad’s response is instantaneous—this new bird shifts into motion and looks right at him. He has dark eyes that can’t quite decide if they want to be black or gray. His hair is ruffled, tossed and messy like it recently encountered a pillow. “What a day, hm?” he sighs. He’s pale, barefoot, wearing—SH-120 doesn’t know what he’s wearing, but it barely covers a thing. “You look lonely,“ the bird murmurs, head tilting, almost coy in the way he looks up at SH-120. “I can fix that.” SH-120 swallows. It’s not a new line. In fact, it’s the _only_ line these birds have—same scripted bullshit diced out to each and every potential joe. The bird turns on a heel and takes up his previous position under the triple-x, his bit over.

SH-120 is tempted to play it back. The bird is objectively beautiful, he supposes. He’s not sure. But beautiful seems like the right word to describe him.

Sh-120 does not dwell on it when he swipes for a name. He does not debate whether it is appropriate for him to be saving that information for later. He just does it. And when he finishes his next assignment, he returns to his corner room on the third floor of a hostel, stitches the stab wound in his gut, and does not question why he pulls up a bird called Little Red on his console screen.

When morning light begins to filter through the window, SH-120 has still not yet moved. The bird blinks up at him, stuck in a perpetual flickering loop of soft, steady gazes, waiting for SH-120 to tap the screen, to fall into his world, to watch him.

SH-120 turns away and prepares for his day.

 

***

 

Europe is still in pieces, shattered and radiation-poisoned. SH-120 relocates to Nepal, burns out three evasive runners. He almost takes a bullet to the head. It’s easy to forget he’s not the only one who still hunts. He bides over in Reykjavík for a while, takes out a band of Phase III’s before having to stop off in Yellowknife. There’s a blizzard that keeps him grounded for a month.

He watches Red. But then—he doesn’t even do that, does he? SH-120 just looks at him, never lets himself fully know. He wonders. _God_ , he wonders. For a year, he has just looked, but here, in the midst of this storm, the lure of his curiosity is the most difficult thing he has endured. He mustn’t. He _can’t._

And then, with snow in the streets and the wind’s shrieking turned to white noise, he does. SH-120 watches. And he watches. And the bird is quiet, and he is careful, and he is not knowable, and yet—SH-120 feels heaviness in his pulse and dampness in his palms, and he does not understand. He does not understand why his skin warms, why his eyes can’t turn away. The way Red moves, the way he— _looks._ SH-120 did not know someone could look like that. All softness and tenderness and barely-there whispers. He is standing right in front of SH-120, right within reach, softly swaying to music that SH-120 cannot even hear, and he is made of both complexity and simplicity, a ray of light shrouded by the shadows, a flickering flame in the darkness of a cold room. He is an illusion, a fantasy, a hologram. But there is a real version of him, somewhere out there, a real flesh and blood person-

There are rules. There are consequences. SH-120 is a Paladin, not a man.  _This is all that I am. This is all that I am. This is all._

In the nights, Red is there with him, in his dreams. Unshakeable. He looks at SH-120, and touches him—his hand, his arm, his face. He is warm, like a sunrise, and then just as quickly, he is gone.

SH-120 always wakes in a sweat. The blizzard lingers on. SH-120 sits up, shakes the tremors from his hands, and checks for his baseline, inducing a test.

“Where do you go when you go within? Within.”

“Within.”

“Has anyone ever locked you out of a room? Within.”

“Within.”

“Where is the place in the world you feel the safest? Within.”

“Within.”

His voice is made of lead.

“Do you have a heart? Within.”

“Within.”

“Have they let you feel heartbreak? Within.”

“Within.”

“Have they left a place for you where you can dream? Within.”

SH-120 does not waver.

“Within.” 

 

***

 

As the lion’s den of the GALRA, it is a wonder that SH-120 finds himself pulling into Seoul City, but the cruiser can’t suffer another trip without a new battery. The rain is ceaseless, has been for the last three decades, but the emporium is bustling as ever. He leaves his cruiser with the shop while they install his replacement and goes in search of a room. The skies are nearly black, the streets overcrowded—everyone’s got an elbow to their ribs. A random gunshot goes off, firing into the street, catching a guy in the shoulder, sending them tumbling down into a murky puddle. A cheer goes up inside one of the bars, more gunshots ringing out. The drunks are out tonight in full force.

SH-120’s feet bring him to an overhang, people brushing past every which way. He stands in the floodlights, elbows braced against the railing. He is in a fog. Soul-tired, at twenty-six. No longer connected to physical pain. And then—something painfully bright, high and huge in front of him. On the building across the way, a half a dozen stories high, a thirty-foot version of Red looks down at the city. Lounging recumbent, elbow bent to prop his head. SH-120 is dwarfed by the enormity of him. A man standing before the sun. He stares up at Red like he’s a holy site.

Red sees him down below, begins to vamp and twirl. An interactive ad, like deja vu, except everything about him is a vulgar exaggeration: his hair is a blinding shade of fuschia, eyes entirely dark, two endless abysses seeing everything and nothing.  _Come and see me,_ he murmurs, and SH-120 blinks. He takes in the storefront, the bouncers, the lineup outside, and he is shocked into stillness.

It’s a club. A dance club. A strip club. And Red is just on the other side of those doors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't written fic in a good while but this is a culmination of a bazillion little plot bunnies that have been hopping around in my head begging to be au'd. Blade Runner is A1 but other influences include Elysium, Halo, Star Wars, Altered Carbon, and Cyberpunk 2077. if anyone is still stuck on, like, _what_ Shiro is exactly, the Blade Runner wiki definition for 'replicant' is where you'll find the most clarification, but he's basically a synthetic Bucky Barnes lol. ultimately, all the futuristic gibberish is just a backdrop for an otherwise very intimate story.  
>   
>  just fyi, it is not at ALL necessary to have watched BR2049 or any of the others mentioned to understand what is going on here. the plot of this fic is entirely its own kind of garbage:) tags will ofc be updated as we go to avoid spoilers. feel free to come bother me over on [tumblr](https://bullsnatch.tumblr.com/) in the meantime! xx


	2. Walking Through a World Gone Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [i’ve been watching you for some time (can’t stop staring at those oceans eyes)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=viimfQi_pUw)   
> 

Keith Kogane was taken from his parents before they could even hold him.

He doesn’t know much else. Nothing at all, in fact. His story is as unextraordinary as they come: just another war orphan from the Sector 7 slums of Seoul City. When he was still just a kid growing up in the orphanage, he would lie quietly in the dark and stare up at the bunk above his and imagine he could see through it, past the mattress and the little boy sleeping on it, past the ceiling to the sky above. He’d lay utterly still, close his eyes, and wish with all his might—not to make a friend, or to have his family back—but that someone out there in the world would love him. And then he would fall asleep with the hope that one day it would come true. 

  

***

 

Keith looks in the reflection of the glass shower panel in front of him every day when the power hoses wash him down and does not understand what he sees.

He’s always known that his life would be unremarkable, that this neon-laced cesspool of a city is the place he will live and the place he will die.

It’s standard hour six and he’s preparing for another long shift at work. A bird since he was eighteen, he grew up watching the older kids at the orphanage claw their way out of the ratnest by any means necessary. Caged Society had been the face of triumph for him, a way he knew he could escape. He’s gotten this far on coyness alone, never let himself entertain the idea of a live audience—or a private one, at that—until only recently. Performing in front of a camera had been safe, simple; there was no room for what-ifs or hypotheticals, he knew what he would be broadcasting and what would be earned in return.

It’s just not enough anymore. His subscriber count has plateaued, been at a standstill for the better part of a year, and there are only so many different packages and premiums he can offer before he’s expected to provide something more. To top it off, rent’s gone up again and he’s losing too much weight, not getting enough to eat. It’s a game of survival out here, always has been, and if you want to live to see the next day, you learn to adapt, which—it’s not that he dislikes it. On the contrary, he wonders why he avoided this for so long. Perhaps he just wanted to keep some piece of himself hidden. Unshared. He’s gained a bigger audience, at least. Pay’s gone up, of course, just enough to get him an occasional third meal, to keep the landlord off his back, to get a couple extra gallons of running water. Dancing gets you only so far, and there are thousands of birds willing to give up what Keith cannot bring himself to.

In the hallway, Keith holds his hand to the doorlock sensor and waits for it to click shut before turning to weave his way through the regulars: sprawled out, drugged and dazed, kneeled over dice and dollars, puffing on their vaporizers, dressed down and tatted up–

Keith is one of the lucky ones. At least he has a place he can call his own.

He descends the flight of stairs, ignores a “How much is pussy goin’ for these days, baby?” uttered in Japanese on his way down, and pulls his hood over his head. The rain greets him as he steps out into the street, as familiar as breathing.

Seoul City hasn’t seen sunshine since the Before. This is the world Keith knows, here down in Sector 7: irradiated and miserable, home to the dregs of humanity, atoning for the blight their forefathers wrought upon the earth, renouncing the pantheons of old corporate gods in exchange for the new. Every street is a self-contained snapshot of misery. Towering buildings, so tall and so monstrous they stay dizzying as they are dazzling. ‘Respectable’ people would never even dream of traveling to ground-level. They remain safe, happy, and well-insulated high above the bottom feeders, detached from the masses suffering right outside the walls of their pristine homes, cheating life because not even they can cheat death. The streets are an urban basement, barely a passing thought in their privileged lives. Money talks and GALRA protects those who pay up.

Keith catches the skytrain, squished between a sloshed gunslinger and handsy cokehead.

Club EDEN greets him with the usual when he arrives, obscured bodies writhing behind frosted glass, birds hard at work with their patrons. Keith passes through security and books it to the top floor. The elevator’s hum washes over him as he ascends ten flights. He’ll be half-naked and glittered up soon enough, just one more bird on the docket. It’s going to be another long night.

He searches out a quiet corner room, clocks in, and begins undressing.

 

***

 

SH-120 had hoped that the cruiser battery would be replaced and ready to go within the same 24 hours, but government models are tricky to pipe, and the garage needs time to send runners out to find coordinating parts, which is why SH-120 had been avoiding it, and so here he waits, locked inside his hostel room for the third day in a row, avoiding the rain and the heathens and, above all, the bird from the Caged Society ad he had stumbled upon all those months ago.

The city casts streaks of light into the dark of the room, pinks and blues and purples skimming across the floor like the rain that pelts against the window. SH-120 sits and waits, does not allow himself to watch Red, to even think about Red. He will not throw all caution to the wind and fork over all his remaining GAC to see Red dance in his gilded cage for SH-120 and just for SH-120. He certainly will not.

Three days becomes four, four becomes five, and then before SH-120 knows it, the painful awareness of Red being mere blocks from where SH-120 lays his head has him seven days sleepless and starved.

With the excuse of going out to settle his hunger, he finds himself lingering across from the club. It’s all too familiar a feeling: hovering on the brink of temptation, right on the edge of giving in, wanting so badly to see, just to _see_. The streets are congested, barely a place for someone of SH-120’s stature to be standing idle, but there he is, hands in pockets, face framed by his hood, feet planted on the concrete as people weave around him.

Then: a clear umbrella. Bobbing through the crowd, raindrops sluicing off, veiling the person that hides beneath it. SH-120 makes out a pale head of hair—white.

That has him moving.

SH-120 is in motion, gaze leveled, alert. His nerves are live-wired as he snakes forward and the figure underneath the umbrella draws closer. A certain feeling settles itself in his gut.

Gray eyes meet his.

SH-120’s throat tightens, chest constricting—his whole body stiffens up, air caught somewhere in his lungs.

Red.

It’s Red. Looking right at him, right at SH-120, all but a few paces away, their eyes locked, caught in a moment SH-120 can’t identify, can’t put a name to, but he never wants it to end.

And then just as quickly, it’s over. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, maybe no more than one. Red walks on, just another amongst the masses, not a bird but a boy. A real boy. Completely unaware of SH-120, a man but not a man, who watches him, dreams of him, and has never felt so close but yet so far.

 

***

 

His cruiser is ready for pickup at the shop, and SH-120 has spent every waking moment praying for it to be so, just so he can fly off and never have to be in the same vicinity as Red ever again, but somehow, he finds himself seated with the lowlifes of Seoul City inside Club EDEN, waiting to catch another glimpse of Red anyway.

There are birds cycled in like clockwork, sealed inside backlit display boxes, like gilded cages, bidding numbers projected high up for all to see. Holograms. Live feeds projected from their workrooms. From wall to wall, the bar is flooded with hoodlums, drunk and pocket-heavy. SH-120 doesn’t know what he expected, can’t believe he’s here, no better than any other standing in the room, and in the time he waits, he grows hesitant, second-guessing it all.

His eyes pass over one of the smaller bidding numbers so far. He watches it for a moment, sees it quickly begin rocketing.

SH-120’s feet move on autopilot, maneuvering through the crowd, and then—he stops.

This isn’t him. He does not pay for club entry. He does not cash out for bird bidding. He does not. He  _shouldn’t._  But then-

SH-120 remembers hair so pale it puts moonlight to shame. He’d seen it so many times: on the retired, on his bunkmates, on himself; SH-120 can’t count how many boxes of hair dye he’s gone through to cover it up, to blend in, to be able to hide in plain sight. It’s a mark of his genetics, a symptom of his inhumanness, a dead giveaway to any hunter-

It’s just hair. It’s just hair—Red is no Paladin. It means nothing. So then-

_Why?_

Why does SH-120 hunt him like he is one? He is all but a bird. So then-

Why is SH-120 haunted by him? Unable to shake him from his skin?

SH-120 had spent months wondering how long it would take for him to stop dreaming of the bird, but he’s seen Red now— _seen_ him—how will he ever be able to forget? If he had known how long this desire would cling to his skin, would he still have ignited it? Would he have still given in, gone looking, searching through the scum just to be able to know his name?

 _Who are you?_ SH-120  wants to ask him.

And then there he is, right in front of SH-120. Red: served up for the uncouth drunks and vulgar bidders.

_What do you dream of?_

SH-120 closes his eyes against the flying numbers.

_Because I dream of you._

   

***

 

Keith’s regular who comes in biweekly at standard hour three orgasms like an asthmatic gorilla.

He pities the cleaners who have to wipe up the aftermath of these sessions, but it only ever serves to renew Keith’s hesitancy to move beyond the glass separating him from his patrons. There’s always a parade of hands—some calloused, some riddled with wrinkles, some heavy with rings—reaching out for him. Towering and imposing men, hunched over, hands roughly wrapped around themselves and pressed up against the glass, like they’ve caught something so sweet, like they’ve trapped the finest-boned bird. Maybe one day Keith will come to grace his clientele with a full package, once he’s realized there is nothing more for him to hold back, nothing more to pretend is still his to keep hidden.

Masked behind the blackout glass once more, he peels off his wig and slips his raw feet out of his heels, awaiting the next bid as the cleaners spray down and disinfect the viewing room.

At standard hour four, he receives a patron bid of 10000 GAC for a thirty-minute session.

The amount isn’t what throws him off so much as the theme request, though the bid itself is undeniably generous for what Keith is used to receiving. He doesn’t tend to attract those who crave simplicity; there is a reason for his collection of dangerous-looking heels and skimpy underthings. Nonetheless, he forgoes the heavy makeup and finishes fastening his cheongsam from neck to hip, catching his own eye in the mirror. Quietly gazing upon himself, he ponders when it last was that he adorned the outfit. It was one of the first he had bought for his live sessions; he figured that his local audience might appreciate the sentimental value, but the ways of the Old World carry little weight in the hearts of a post-Blackout generation. Those who carry a penchant for the traditional theme typically come hand in hand with old age and the tongues of the lost motherland—it is often a challenge, trying to decipher the olden dialects. Keith was raised with the new-age vernacular, but remnants of the Before still linger, bleed into the utterances of the senior GALRA officials and arms dealers who hold onto the speech of their homelands like that, too, will disappear. Keith wonders what it must feel like, to know where you come from. To know and to still never be able to go back.

The viewing room door slides open.

There is a man of great build standing on the other side of the glass. Keith’s eyes drag up very slowly, taking him in carefully. They linger on scars, where flesh stops and metal begins, before meeting a set of dark eyes. For a moment, he forgets that the glass is still blacked out. That he cannot be seen, not yet.

The man is familiar. From the street, a few days ago. Keith would recognize him anywhere, though his face had largely been well hidden. The look in his eyes, the way he carried himself was—distinctive. A soldier, but not GALRA. The darkness of his clothing does little to hide what lies beneath them, every inch of his body packed with heavy, dense muscle, posture casual, but hidden behind it a no doubt deadly amount of strength. He is quiet, contemplative as he takes a seat and the door hisses closed behind him.

This man is not what he seems, that much Keith can gather. Metal lines his limbs as seamlessly as skin, not just the work of any shop hand. It’s unlike anything Keith has seen before. There are stories, of course, whispers from the Old World, and something inside Keith is screaming danger, but there’s three different cameras watching, and the guy _did_ pay—and so Keith has to dance.

He starts the timer, music cueing, and the glass clears.

 

***

  

He feels like a caveman. Like he has just seen Eve in the highgardens, ethereal amongst the sun-dappled canopies and streams—he is overcome, sudden and vicious and entirely unexplainable. A dire need burns over his skin, itching for him to be closer, to seek out the sight that taunts him, to feel for a touch— _his_ touch.

SH-120 finds himself unable to breathe, cold sweat forming in beads at his temples because he is truly seeing Red in the flesh for the first time, dazed by every motion, watching the way his limbs sway in coordination with every minute movement he makes. His moonlit sheen, his rosy cheeks and shoulders and knees. His hair, pitch black and intricately pulled back, done up high and tight, coming stray at his temples and neck, bangs sweeping down over his forehead. The tight hug of his dark silvery-red dress, drawing eyes from its grip around that slender neck to the slits that run up the sides of those long legs.

He’s a flower in an endless sea of scum. A painting by some ancient Italian artist. He’s the color of the heavens when the cities are nowhere close, the sunlight that has long been forgotten. The devotion of the tides to the moon, the moon to the stars, the stars to the galaxy.

He doesn’t belong here.

 

***

 

SH-120’s feet move on autopilot as he tracks down the dimly lit corridor and comes to a stop before Red’s room. His pulse beats at his wrists as he stares at the blinking menu screen, eyes tracking down the list of flares and themes, and he selects  _traditional_ again before he’s even read through the whole list. He realizes, at this moment, how far from his programming he has deviated. There is no going back from this, no unbreaking the rules that have been broken.

SH-120 barely makes a sound as he enters, the dimmed lights intermittently move over his skin in sluggish patterns as he lowers himself into his seat. Then, the blacked out glass in front of him dissipates, and Red is standing there, and SH-120 knows he has dug his own grave—bid his own money, given in to his selfish need to just  _know—_ and now he sits here, night after night, staring up at Red like a drunk who’s crawled into a church and can’t stop staring at God.

“You like what you see?”

SH-120 thinks he’s hallucinated for a second.

Red is looking right at him, only a minute into their session. SH-120 does not respond for a moment. He does not know  _how_ to respond.

Red’s eyes fall away. “You know, if you don’t like real birds there _are_ other options.”

SH-120’s ears burn. “I don’t know what I like.”

Red looks up at him again, mouth softly parting. He inclines his head, hair spilling over one shoulder. He sways a bit to the music, then steps forward, closer. Closer, still. Right at the glass.

SH-120 sits but an arm’s reach away. He’s never spoken to Red, never been so close to him. From a distance, when SH-120 had seen him that first night—even until just now, where he never strayed from the center of his glass box, with the lights and shadows playing tricks—Red’s body had looked slight but secretive, made of water and air, but up close he is not hidden behind filters and falsity like he once was on the screen, and SH-120 can now see that Red is more willowy than he seemed at first glance, waist narrow, arms solid but slender, if a little boney. There’s almost no fat on him, and the cut of his face is sharp for someone so young, but SH-120 knows the makeup plays its part.

“What’s your name?” Red asks.

SH-120 ponders the question. He feels a sense of shame.

Red’s lips tug upward at the corner. “Can’t be that bad,” he teases. His eyes are entirely too big, entirely too bright. SH-120 just stares back into them. Red’s brows pull together, the most minute movement. His gaze softens. “Oh,” he murmurs quietly, “you don’t even smile.” He says it so matter-of-fact, like it’s the saddest truth in the whole world. The music is still playing, but Red doesn’t seem to care, standing still, watching SH-120. 

SH-120 feels naked, like he’s the one on display, here to be looked at. His eyes wander to a crack in the glass, a small shatter, like a fist encountered it, or a bullet. Something seems to settle between them when Red finally meets his gaze, but SH-120 can’t tell if it’s a bridge or a wall.

He turns, disappearing back beneath the neon lighting.

  

***

 

“SH-120,” he says, eyes on the floor. There are burning cities and napalm skies, and SH-120 needs Red to know, to see him, to _see him_ , SH-120, whoever he is. “You asked—last time. My-” he chooses his words carefully. “I’m called SH-120.”

Red is quiet, does not respond for a moment. He frowns, does that little head tilt, like he’s pondering how someone can be named such a thing. The music overhead is somber, sensual. He sways to it as he considers this new piece of information. He looks at SH-120. He asks, “Do you find me beautiful, SH-120?”

SH-120 swallows. He does not look away, does not think to hide from the question, to pretend to not understand it. “Yes,” he quietly admits. If there is such a thing as beauty, Red is most definitely it. Red continues to sway. He is wearing something white, gauzy—short. It makes SH-120 nervous.

“Show me,” Red replies, and his eyes wander from SH-120’s face down his torso, down, down, down to the V of his legs.

SH-120 does not know if he can. He’s never thought to, never has. Never before, not once. SH-120 does not know how. His body was a tool of the Alliance— _is._

Red stands still. He presses a palm to the glass. “What is it?”

SH-120 shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Red looks him over, like he knows something SH-120 doesn’t. “Or you won’t?”

SH-120 stares at the ground beneath Red’s feet, fingers curling over his knees, vulnerability working into the lines of his body.

“I’m sorry,” Red says. He shrugs. “I know what you are.”

SH-120 freezes. He looks up once more, careful, guarded. “You know what I am?”

Red sighs, pulls himself back to the center of the cage, runs a hand up the pole. “Just some guy who paid to watch a bird dance,” he answers, glancing over his shoulder before swinging his legs up and bending his body in a way that has SH-120 forgetting all else. 

 

***

 

SH-120’s sits behind the bar of a ramen shop, head bent over his noodles. Across from it, a local arms dealer sits proudly before his armory, his big screen lit up with the latest bounties. SH-120 glances up now and again, intrigued by the payouts. He’s not particularly low on GAC, but it never hurts to have a little extra. Whenever he’d been pushing it, local bounties tended to be the easiest and fastest way to replenish. He was a hunter by nature, so side jobs were always aplenty, but he’s in the den of the GALRA, he can’t forget that. It isn’t safe. He should’ve been out of here _days_ ago. He’s cutting it close.  _Too_ close. Red knows his face, his voice, his _designation_ —what the fuck was he _thinking?_

SH-120 gazes into the broth in his bowl as a jacked-up GALRA sentry leans up against the side of the stall, jerking his chin towards the big screen. “You heard they puttin’ word out for a science baby?”

“Lotor’s probably gettin’ a hardon as we speak,” his partner responds. SH-120 tries to tune the rest of the conversation out.

“Man, somebody gotta tell him he can just look in a mirror if all it takes is a head of white hair.”

SH-120 freezes. His blood runs cold, skin crawling.

“I give it three days,” comes the flippant response.

SH-120 is already pushing back from the bar and heading for the cruiser. He sits out a block from the skytrain station, knuckles white where he’s clenching his fingers around the wheel.

He could leave. He could leave tonight, go right now, never look back-

An image flashes across his mind—Red’s skin, his lashes, his hair, a combination of moon and milk.

_Do you find me beautiful, SH-120?_

The rain pelts down, and SH-120 curses at his own weakness.

 

***

 

Keith does not think much of his new regular except that there is an odd, closed off air to him that is equal parts intimidating and curious. Patrons typically try to get their money’s worth, bend over backward to make Keith give up more than he’s offering—even attempt to toss him extra on the side, if only to make them come that much harder. But with this guy, Keith never even sees a flicker of emotion, no tightening in the pants or crude words thrown at him—just silence. Thirty minutes of it. Every time. Never a move made, barely a word exchanged. Always the same steady, collected gaze watching Keith sway and twirl and slowly peel off his dress—the very same one from the very first time—and Keith almost begins to grow used to it.

Almost. Even out here in Seoul City, huge metal-armed men are not a very typical sight. There are stories, of course. And histories, obviously. But that’s all they are. That’s what Keith wants to believe.

The street is bustling, the night still young, but it’s been another long week and Keith just got off a shift. He wants nothing more than to fall face first into bed. He’s just passed a group of joyriders loitering around one of the biggest cases of penis compensation he’s ever witnessed when his stomach begins to grumble, mind in a fog, feet aching as he drags them up the stairs to the skytrain platform. It’s quiet up here, just heavy snoring and creaky piping. The crowds below sound distant, almost calming, and Keith’s mind drifts as he waits for his train, the image of quiet calm, a searing gaze, a pair of large hands that almost look gentle drifting their way into his sleepy brain. He waits for them to reach out and touch him but they never do.

Perhaps there is a savior complex brewing and Keith is oblivious to it.

Perhaps his latest regular is just flush with GAC and lonely.

Something ominous pricks the back of his neck.

Keith turns to look over his shoulder just as the train pulls through with a gust of cold wind, stinging his cheeks. He blinks, looking around, and turns to board. He slowly seats himself, doors closing, but not before he catches a glimpse of a dark figure flitting by as the train peels off.

 

***

 

“You’re quiet.”

SH-120 stares up at Red. “Am I?”

Red half-shrugs, lazily winds around the pole. “Moreso than usual.” He doesn’t elaborate. SH-120 is not expecting it when Red next says, “I suppose Paladins aren’t the most social type.”

SH-120 feels caught in a trap, stuck in the maw of a wolf, teetering over the ledge at the end of the universe. His heart sits like a rock inside his chest. “Paladins don’t exist,” he responds easily, gaze leveled. According to the government, they did not exist. They were ghosts. But they were very real. They  _are._ SH-120 feels as real as any flesh and bone person.

“Then I suppose that makes you a real man.” Red’s eyes track up to his, blisteringly tender. “A real man needs a real name.” He walks forward, comes to stand in front of the glass. He parts his lips and sighs, breathing out, fogging it up, and he raises a finger, writing into the condensation there.

_S H 1 2 0_

He steps back, gazes upon it. “Shiro,” he murmurs to himself. Their eyes meet. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

***

 

Shiro.

Shiro.

Red had named him Shiro.

His mind races, trips over a hundred thoughts, can’t seem to settle, to quiet down, to think reasonably, rationally—he is soundless as he trails Keith from EDEN to the skytrain. His feet work on autopilot.

There’s no time.

Keith climbs the stairs, unaware, and turns the corner. SH-120 follows—and freezes.

The platform is empty, train doors idle, wide open. Nothing. No sign of Red.

SH-120 makes a split-second decision, pulls back the flap of his jacket to reach for his glock.

He’s just stepped into the first train car when a pair of legs swing down from the rafter overhead and his head is suddenly slammed between two pale thighs and locked into place. A brutal twist of momentum knocks him out of balance, choking the breath out of him before he’s sent flying, flipped onto his back.

SH-120 lays stunned for a moment, sees Red standing over him and doesn’t even register his own gun being pointed at him—swiped right out of SH-120’s holster before SH-120 had even made contact with the ground.

The doors swoosh shut and a sudden hush falls over them, filled with nothing but their heavy breaths as they size each other up. The train jerks forward into motion.

“You wanna explain why the fuck you’re following me?”

SH-120 blinks, presses his hand to the back of his head. Taken out by Red, and all he can think is that this is the first time they’ve touched. Red’s face is cold, a mask of anger over panic. His raincoat is undone, the traditional dress he was wearing for their dance visible underneath. The black hair is gone—all that white spilling out of a tied up half-do, wily and clear as day, damp from the humidity of the rain.

SH-120 begins to pick himself up. Red cocks the gun—SH-120 raises his hands up, placating, as he slowly stands. His eyes never leave Red’s.

“Who are you?”

Red raises a brow. “Answering a question with a question? Polite.”

SH-120 blinks at the sarcasm. He is unused to this side of Red, all this bite and bitterness. Instead of lowering his hands, he jerks forward, twists Red’s aimed arm and pushes him up against the wall of the train car; Red loses his grip on the gun and SH-120 snatches it away.

He is all at once aware of their proximity. He’d wondered what Red would feel like, for so long he’d wondered. Red almost feels fragile beneath SH-120’s hands, like he would break with the slightest bit of force. But the soreness steadily building in SH-120’s shoulder knows the deceit behind such a dangerous assumption. Red is not entirely what SH-120 expected.

“Why does GALRA want your head? What makes you so damn valuable?”

Red’s brows furrow. “You should know,” he snarls.  _“You’re the one hunting me.”_

A droplet of water from SH-120’s wet hair drips onto Red’s cheek. He watches it trickle down over pale skin and disappear beneath the line of Red’s jaw, down, down below the cut of his dress.

He holsters his gun and draws back. Red spins around and presses himself further up against the wall, as if to disappear into it, backed into a corner like a frightened animal.

“GALRA’s got a bounty out on you,” SH-120 plainly states, watching Red carefully.

The bird violently shakes his head. “Yeah, and I suppose I’ll just take your word for it?” Nervous laughter bubbles up out of him, almost hysterical. He doesn’t believe SH-120. “You gonna kill me?”

“Depends,” SH-120 replies. “What’s your model number?”

“Why don’t you look under my eye and find out?” Red spits out, stands his ground, eyes like burning coals, calm and combative all at once, poised for both fight and flight, like he’s daring SH-120 to open his mouth, like a single move will send him running.

SH-120 doesn’t get a chance to respond because the doors open with seamless efficiency, a crowd of late nighters staggering in, filling the seats. Amongst them is a woman, dressed in an all-black ensemble, keen eyes scanning the train car.

Red clears his throat, tucking himself further into his little corner without another word as the doors close. His hair is on display for all to see, transparent against the clear cling of his raincoat. SH-120 carefully turns his back, angles his body as some semblance of a buffer, attempting to hide Red from sight. The woman is leaned up against a pole behind them. The train begins forward when SH-120 notices her glancing their way from the corner of her eye. She can’t see over the broad expanse of his shoulders, but the stranger’s relaxed posture from only seconds before is all but vanished, leaving behind a woman with a careful control over her actions and a dangerous glint in her eye. A cursory glance down her flank shows a glock tucked into a holster beneath her overcoat. The tension seems to heighten as she and SH-120 stare at each other through the reflection of the window, all while Red stands between him and the wall, entirely unaware.

SH-120 stares at the metallic panel in front of him, a muscle ticking in his jaw. As slowly and carefully as he dares, he extends his arm out, metal hand pressing to the glass of the window as he angles himself in a purposeful manner, and Red naturally moves further in front of him. He goes easily, confusion marking his face. He doesn’t say anything, keeping his eyes steadily on SH-120. SH-120 lifts his other hand, the backs of his fingers trailing across Red’s belly before he curls them around Red’s waist. Red shudders beneath his touch. SH-120 leans in and he doesn’t close his eyes until the very last moment, wanting to see the look on Red’s face, how his eyes drop to SH-120’s lips and his own fall open in anticipation.

The fit of SH-120’s mouth over Red’s is the rightest thing he’s ever felt, like the void inside of SH-120 has finally aligned itself. Red’s lips are soft and warm where they fit against SH-120’s, and they might as well be alone for all SH-120 cares.

SH-120 crowds him into the wall, slowly deepening the kiss with the slide of their lips as Red’s fingers come to rest on SH-120’s chest. SH-120 can’t help but fall into Red, pressing the strength of his body against Red’s, chest against chest as Red turns his head to fit better against him. He licks into Red slowly and unhurriedly, curling his body to shield Red from the strange woman in the train car.

Red kisses like he needs it, all frantic, gasped-out breaths, choked-off sounds made only for SH-120, fingers tightening on Sh-120’s shoulder, his other hand coming up to cup SH-120’s face as he opens his mouth and entices SH-120. He feels Red sigh against him, sated and long awaited, before he presses forward once more, his mouth claiming Red’s for his own.

They don’t stop kissing until they arrive at the last stop, the train sliding to a halt with a soft bump, and even then, the kiss lingers, slow and easy, mouths chasing each other even as they pull away, hanging suspended in the air for what feels like an eternity before they inevitably drift back down to earth, to the solidity of the floor beneath their feet and the wall behind Red’s head.

They look at one another in muted silence, SH-120’s thumb tracing private patterns on Red’s hip as Red’s tongue darts out over his lower lip, eyes locked on to SH-120’s. The passengers file out, and SH-120 leans forward as the train doors close. With another gentle jolt, it starts to propel.

SH-120’s heart thuds once, his hand stills on Red’s hip and he clenches his jaw.

His eyes wander up to the reflection of the woman in the train; she hadn’t stepped out. She stands tense and ready. SH-120’s glare in the reflection is taken as silent authorization, and her face twists, pulling her hand back to reach beneath her coat.

SH-120 whirls around and lunges at her, barely noticing Red startle. He grabs a fistful of the woman’s hair and smashes her face into the window, making the whole train shake on its line. The momentum of SH-120’s push has her head rebounding off of the panel with a sickening thud. SH-120 wastes no time, shoving her backward so that her cranium cracks against the nearest pole.

Red scrambles forward, eyes wide, plastering himself to the corner in an effort to evade the blows and fists of SH-120 and the hitman as they fight.

SH-120 places a hand on the top of the woman’s head and another on her neck, trying to snap her spine, but it doesn’t work, she’s built up too much resistance as he pushes back. She seems to be trying to reach her handgun in her holster, so SH-120 drives his knee into her thigh, bruising muscle and bone in its force. The woman half-crumbles, crying out, and SH-120 takes the opportunity to shove her to the floor, forehead smashing against a seat on the way down.

Red rushes across the small space of the train car and he carefully plants himself firmly behind SH-120, gripping onto the poles in case his knees give out. SH-120 prowls over the fallen hitman; the woman looks up at SH-120 from the floor, dazed and done in as droplets of blood fall into her eyes.

“Shiro!"

SH-120 turns, lugs himself up and darts after Red out of the train, just as the doors close after them. The train peels off, leaving them to catch their breath, and SH-120 just looks at Red, standing there next to him with his little dress and messy hair, and says, “Come with me.”

Red blinks. Stares at him wordlessly. His mouth opens, closes. 

“Come with me,” SH-120 says again, stepping forward.

At this point, he really doesn’t expect Red to agree. Red should be more careful. Red shouldn’t accept rides from Paladins he meets in 24-hour sex clubs. Red shouldn’t toss his backpack in the cruiser and scramble into the front seat and trust SH-120— _Shiro_ —not to do something really bad to him. Red shouldn’t look so happy to throw in with a guy he just met.

But he does all those things anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh snap!! hope ya'll liked this one! ty so much for the feedback so far, u r all so cute ily


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